Two Seeking Snipers
by Fluorescens
Summary: A series of ficlets written for 7snogs LJ community. Havoc X Riza. Will be updated as I continue to add. Reviews are love! :D
1. Chapter 1

Written for the LJ community 7snogs. :)

All thanks goes out to Parsnip for beta-work.

* * *

It was such a dreary day.

The skies were tinged pale bluish-gray, the clouds were stretched far and thin and the sun was hiding behind a particular block of drab gray building.

Jean leaned into the corner, crossed his right boot over his left and let out a long weary sigh.

It was time for a smoke.

Sometimes he wondered why he smoked so much too. It was not that he didn't know how 'harmful' smoking was, as Fuery had so kindly told him many, many times, and neither was it a cheap past-time. But everyone seemed to be okay with it and none really said anything adverse to it (other than Fuery).

He tapped the last cigarette out from the box, fished the lighter from his breast pocket, lit the stick and slipped the lighter back into the pocket. For two seconds, he watchedsmile and closed his eyes.

For a while, he allowed himself to enjoy the sensation of smoking; the way the cigarette dangled in between his lips, the taste of bittersweet nicotine, the comfortable smell of the smoke and that split moment in which he inhaled and exhaled.

An airy-gray smoke ring glided up into the air while a crow let out a long caw somewhere in the distance.

He mulled things over in his head, with the occasional flick of dying ash from the cigarette as the only measure of time. The situation with the Homonculus had been much worser than he had originally expected and now that Hughes was dead, the tension and worry were multiplied a hundred-fold in their hearts.

Jean wondered what went through Riza's heart when she stood by the Colonel in front of Hughes' grave. Was she upset because he was? Was she in pain because she felt his? Or did she felt that she had to be stronger since the next victim could possibly be the Colonel?

He wished he could unload her burden, or at least take part in sharing it. But he knew that role was never meant for him. Riza's heart belonged to _him_, and he knew it very well. It was never mentioned nor hinted, and in fact, no one would have noticed anything going on between his Colonel and the First Lieutenant other than pure military business. But because he loved Riza, his eyes told him another thing; that in their minds, there was a smaller, darker world in which only the both of them dwelt.

He himself, was just an outsider who did not even dare to prowl on the borders of _their_ dimension. He could only wait from afar, like a deserted sniper who had nothing and no one else for anchor other than his own rifle.

Sometimes, he wondered where he stood in her heart. A friend? A subordinate? Did she even care for him? And sometimes, he wondered how far she would go for the Colonel, and how far he himself would go for her. The answer was pretty obvious, but he kept evading it. There were only so many things to day-dream about, and he needed some hard questions in his head to keep the facade going on. The Colonel was a very observant and perceptive person, and his feelings were something that he wanted to keep to himself.

After all, they were 'military dogs' and one never knew what could happen if such a thing got leaked out. Their heads were at stake and he did not want to endanger any of their lives, and even more so their purpose in helping the Colonel in achieving his goal. Such personal stuff were not more important than the state of their homeland, at all.

Even though sometimes, he would dream of meeting her under a different set of circumstances. In his dreams, they would not be wearing the ugly blue military uniforms. He would be a commoner and she would not be the general's grand-daughter; she would smile more often, he would not smoke and they would hold hands and laugh at marching soldiers.

"Havoc."

The quarter-gone cigarette almost dropped from his lips when he heard her voice. He spun around in the next moment, cursing himself for not being on guard and greeted her instantly, "First Lieutenant!"

Riza raised an eyebrow, "So this is your toilet break."

Jean put on his usual drab, sheepish smile and nodded. Riza let out a silent sigh and gave her shoulders a light shrug, "I need a break too."

He tried to conceal his surprise, and then his shock when she, _his beloved_, leaned against the same wall and frowned quietly. The rigid and alert posture that she had always maintained was gone. From his side view, her shoulders were heavily hunched and a blond tendril of h same wall and frowned quietly. The rigid and alert posture that she had always maintained was gone. From his side view, her shoulders were heavily hunched and a blond tendril of hair had made its way out from her neat bun. There were dark shadows under her eyes, her skin looked positively duller and she was looking down.

At nowhere and everywhere, seemingly. Riza Hawkeye was a first-class sniper after all.

The cigarette dangled on his lips as he frowned a little at this Riza; it was obvious to him that she was mentally and emotionally drained and stretched. His heart ached at the sleepless nights that she had gone through and at his own lack of courage to give her the support that she needed.

Riza was Colonel's, he would not touch. It was simply a code of honor between true men, and Jean did not want to violate it. He adored Roy, the way a boy would adore his older and smarter cousin, but he adored Riza more.

"It's been... a hard week," the words came out falteringly and sounded a tad uncharitable to his ears. Jean mentally winced.

Riza nodded and took in a deep breath, "Anyone could be the next target."

He could not help but to feel a stab of jealousy at her words; he knew that she was more worried about Roy than anyone of them. The calmer Roy was, the more his mind worked and schemed, and he would never tell them his plans if they were too dangerous for them to undertake. But no one would question his orders (except for her) nor ask more than what Roy would reveal.

So he kept quiet, for there was nothing he could say. For a while, both snipers stood under the meagre shelter that the concrete roof provided and tried not to sink into the gutters of their minds. The autumn sun came out for a while and disappeared behind another military building.

"Do you have anymore cigarettes?"

It took Jean more than three seconds to register that question and he answered at the three and a half second, "No sir."

Without looking up, Riza stretched out her left hand and continued, "Pass me yours then."

He stared at her waiting fingers, _those fingers that had pulled the trigger at so many people_, and obediently passed her the half-burnt stick. It had never occurred to him that she might smoke, since she always opened the windows when he smoked inside the office. And when Riza lifted the cigarette to her lips, _those lips that'd vowed to protect Roy_, he knew that she wasn't a new smoker.

"Don't ask me why. I seldom smoke anyway," Riza closed her eyes and let out a wreath of smoke into the air. It was bigger than his.

He nodded his head and said nothing while his eyes constantly shifted back to her face; she looked utterly at peace and relaxed while she smoked. Jean wanted to laugh, for what seemed like the longest time in his life; genuinely, loudly, throatily. She smoked! It was like a revelation, a never-seen before image of her, and that fact warmed his heart so much that he could forgive the unfeeling, cowardly sun.

Wasn't this like a bond? Like, smoking buddies? A smile formed its curves at the basin of his heart.

"I'm going back first," Riza handed the unfinished cigarette back to him and gave him a small appreciative smile, "Thanks."

Jean let out another drab smile and shrugged his shoulders; his blank expression was not cultured and honed without a good reason. Then when he could no longer hear her footsteps, he stared at the part where her lips had held on to the cigarette for a long while._ Like an anchor, my anchor,_ he smiled to himself and lifted it up to his mouth. It was like a kiss, a tender kiss that they shared through a cigarette and his smile grew wider and truer.

The day suddenly seemed brighter and more cheerful all of a sudden. Jean did not ask why.

The crow let out a caw again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Familiar.**

* * *

It was such a familiar sight. 

The way the cigarette would dangle in between his half-closed blanched lips, with the smoldering tip almost (but never) falling off and the trail of silver-gray smoke into the air. At first, she was transfixed to the half-naked tobacco stick, wondering when and whether the finishing tip would break off and start a small fire on the documents that he was methodically scribbling on.

But such a thing never happened. Before the dying head falls, he would give a customary flick and the ash (_oh how they glitter under the faint morning light_!) would scatter like stardust. Onto his neat desk, into the remnants of his half-finished coffee, and quietly slipped around the Time that lapsed between him and her each time their eyes met.

* * *

Then, she would be fascinated by his unkempt blond hair. 

Sometimes it was smothered with gel; stiff, prickly-looking and unhappy. Sometimes it would be wind-ruffled; soft, messy and wild. Sometimes his fringe would fall all over his eyes, (_and then she would mumble a little about rules and regulations_) and he did look very uncomfortable under the hot sunny days whilst perspiration clouded his sight. Sometimes (which was after she had chided him), his fringe would be so cropped that it was almost non-existent (_and a little regret creeps into her heart_) and she wondered why he was so loyal to Roy and so obedient to her.

_Like a true military dog_, she had mused to herself then and almost instantly added, _Me too_.

Still, she thought his natural hair looked like straw; fresh, new straw that she'd once seen in a farmhouse when she was still playing with dolls and riding on ponies under the guidance of her grandfather. She could still remember the faint smell of it, and the memory of the scent and the sight of bleached hay would sent a tingle down her spine whenever she wanted to smooth her palm over his tousled hair.

But she did not.

* * *

Later on, she subconsciously 'cultivated' a habit to check on his uniform. 

He was a strict (and sometimes rigid), hardworking person who was of much value to the team. And that dedication and self-discipline was reflected in his non-questioning attitude to Roy and his uniform.

The collar was always starched, the brass buttons always shiny, the boots always polished, and the uniform always creaseless (_until the Day ends with discharged bullets_) and straight. He wore his uniform with pride and dignity, that much could be observed and it was always in a fresh dark blue, as if the uniform had been given a new life everyday. No matter how hard she scrutinized his uniform, she could find no fault with the uniform.

Did he had a maid, or a secret girlfriend? Such questions would somehow stray into her mind, but she would later reject these possibilities since he lived alone. It didn't seemed to her that he was someone who would really let anyone into his life at all because they were snipers; one never knew when their life would end by another well-aimed bullet and it was simply irresponsible and selfish to have any close relationships with anyone. This much, she could understand and empathize very well. It was one of the reasons that she suspected as to why he was never really attached despite the women that he had dated.

Why, to hold the hands of your beloved and get him/her killed, too? It was foolish and outright cruel.

And it struck her then, that they were all similar; Roy, he and herself. They'd locked the most private, deepest part of themselves, in a secret place of their mind, because this world was so volatile and dangerous and they could _not_ afford to share everything with another person for that would either bring death (_to all things possible and imaginable_) or imprisonment (_of all sorts thinkable and visible_).

Not to mention, their fierce loyalty and determination to their individual goals.

* * *

Her fingers lightly skimmed over the photo that they had taken once, as a whole group. She was standing beside Roy, and he was half-squatting on the ground with the half-spent cigarette (_it would never leave his mouth; the way all these images would burn themselves into her mind_) with the rest of her comrades.

It was such a familiar sight. And yet not, as her eyes shifted up to his sleeping body clad in white (_his life is half-naked and half-spent like his much loved cigarette_), and then to the stack of letters in her bag that she had read.

Over and over, again and again, until she could see his scrawly handwriting even with her eyes closed.

They were all unsigned, of various length (from several pages long to one short sentence) and content (some were about the dreams he had, some were about his old training days in the academy, one was about his never-talked before family, another was about the way Black Hayate was trained, and another was a debate on the mini-skirt policy, and another was on the one and only accidental kiss they had shared when both of them were half-drunk). But all were fondly addressed to her.

She squeezed her eyes shut; perhaps Roy should have asked Fuery or Breda to clear his apartment instead of her. The sudden influx of knowledge (_of all things private and secret that she shouldn't have known at all_), about him and his thoughts and his feelings and his fears and his likes and his dislikes and his memories and his past and...

Her.

Herself in his eyes, herself in between his lines, herself hidden in the commas and the fullstops and the pauses in his life.

He was so familiar (_his straw-coloured hair still so fresh and clean_), yet so unfamiliar as he silently lay on the white bed before her ( _without the burning cigarette and neatly pressed uniform_). His presence was so familiar, yet he evoked a flurry of unfamiliar emotions in her heart and for the second time in her life, she was at a loss on what to do. First with Roy and now with Jean.

Should she acknowledge his feelings? Should she address her own issues with he and _him_? Or should she simply ignore everything since there was nothing to begin with in the first place?

"You're here."

His hoarse and dry voice (_so familiar, and yet not_), which carried the tone of slight surprise, brought her out from her thoughts. Riza looked into his eyes and nodded reflexively, because no words came to her mind.

"Any cigarettes?" He asked in his usual, drab way and rubbed his eyes, as if nothing had happened at all.

As if he had not been paralysed by Lust, as if she had not read his buried letters, as if they were still superior and subordinate, as if the day was still bright and the birds were chirping and they were cleaning their guns and shooting down enemies and -

"First Lieutenant?"

Riza swallowed down the lump in her throat (for she could no longer call him by his name without thinking of how fondly he had wrote hers), picked up her bag (which was filled with his soul and heart), got to her feet (they felt heavier than ammunition and deadly weapons), gave him a familiar salute (which was stiff and prickly-feeling like his gelled hair) and turned to leave.

"Ri- Riza?"

Unfamiliar softness and warmth enveloped her heart. Tears stung her eyes. Her feet continued to the door.

"I'll come again tomorrow. Rest well."

And as her hand turned, the door opened, and she left behind the familiars and unfamiliars and everything and nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Her Letter.**

* * *

A shadow darted past the corner of his sight, the sound of flapping wings were heard. A gust of wind blew by, the curtains ruffled a little.

Jean tilted his face to the half-opened window and looked out into the sunset.

It was brilliant; the intense orange and red light flooded the path where the residual warmth could reach and as if it was a tragic, poetic dream he was looking into, a flock of birds took off into the sky after a gunshot was heard.

The black creatures screamed.

_Someone must be gunning down the crows. Too many of them. _

But he neither flinched at the sudden gunshot nor move away; he continued to stare into the sinking blood-red sun and tried to recall the scent of her hair when they once watched sunset together. It was getting harder and harder, since Time will eventually dilute and blur one's memories.

They were in her ward; she was reclining on a white plastic chair while he sat beside her.

_"How does it look like? I can't remember how sunsets look anymore."  
_

He however, distinctly remembered the shot of searing pain in his heart when she said that; her tone was so nonchalant, so calm and so dispassionate. And the look on her face (even that image was no longer clear in his mind); she was waiting, waiting for him to laugh that joyless laugh and to describe to her the sunset of that day. He knew that she was lying; knew that she just wanted to refresh the image over and over again in her mind for she was afraid. Afraid that she might forget the bloody sunset, forget how Roy died in her arms that very moment, forget what he said to her, forget the look on his dying face under the fading sunlight.

It was obvious to him then, that she was afraid that her loss of eyesight might cause her to forget everyone except herself. She wanted to hold onto the trauma, to the grief, to the once-yet-not love between Roy and her, to who she used to be and everything else.

Bitterness coiled backwards into his throat as Jean repeated what he said everyday to the blind lieutenant.

_"Isn't it so beautiful?"_ And a soft smile would appear on her face after he'd finished.

He would nod his head, hold her fragile hand (for those fingers no longer hold guns but herself) and place a light kiss on her head. He would bade her goodbyes, leave behind some apples (for that was her favourite fruit) that he had personally peeled for her and opened the door.

And stood, firmly and silently, like a waiting sniper by the door as he closed it behind his back. He would stay back in her room (she wouldn't know, because her hearing had been affected too), to gun down any angry shadows or moaning ghosts that would encroach upon her if they came.

But of course, none of them did. Riza would reach out for the plate of peeled apples on her lap, slowly munch on them while she remained in her chair, staring fully and blankly into the bleeding sunset. She would not say a thing, other than the occasional stretch of her legs as she leaned back.

Sometimes, she slept as early as the sunset faded out. Sometimes, she slept while the nightingales sang their melancholy songs. And sometimes, she would not sleep until morning light washed the room a faint, thin blue. Jean would not move, like a loyal and patient soldier, until she crawled back onto her bed and closed her eyes. Then when he was sure that she was asleep, he would pull up the covers on her, placed another kiss on her forehead and went to work.

Such was the routine, mundane as it was, for a good five years before her soul and body wore out.

Nothing changed at all, in that dark period of time for her (and him) and Jean never complained. He was tired, spent, and drained in all aspects yet he continued to keep up with the routine. Rituals were good, good for battered and hurt souls and he knew that she liked it. She enjoyed his company, although she never said anything and he wanted to see her too.

Sometimes, he would cut her hair when it was too long and heavy for her weary head. But none would say anything important.

His eyes reverted back to the letter that Riza had asked someone to write to him. The handwriting was feminine and he guessed that she had asked her personal nurse (for the military did this much for her, at least) to help her with the letter. Jean folded the letter gently along the age-old lines (lest it tore) and slid it back to the yellowed, dog-eared military envelope.

The letter was short and concise (just like her; she would never change); filling up no more than ten lines with no important matter even though these were her last words (or did she not knew?). But he committed each and every of these words to his memory and Riza had signed it herself, in small and neat alphabets. Perhaps she wanted to leave a part of herself with him, so that she would always be in the present; not in the past (for that would mean that what she had were no longer there) and not in the future (for that would mean that she herself was gone).

Jean ran a hand through his now white hair, took off his heavy glasses and closed his eyes.

Another gunshot resounded. The crows cried.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Frog Prince.**

* * *

It was ridiculous, really.

Havoc looked down and stared at the green-coloured frock that he had donned on. He tried to comfort himself that at least the green was a cheerful and soothing colour although the zip behind the costume bit angrily into his back. He clumsily picked up the last ensemble of the costume and pulled it over his head.

"Do I look like a frog now?" Havoc wobbled forward in the sponge-filled webbed-feet and tried not to trip and fall onto his face. He grimaced a little at the itch in his mouth and thought of the endurance he had to undergo for one whole hour without his nicotine fix.

"Yes of course! My princely frog! Look how stately and handsome I am!" Mustang flung out his right arm and gave his wig of blond curls a shake as he admired himself in the mirror.

"An ugly, mutant frog," Breda added while he adjusted his bow-tie for the twelfth time and sighed; _Why did he had to be a footman?_

Havoc groaned and tried to pick up the gold cardboard-made crown with his webbed fingers, "How am I supposed to turn into a prince later?"

The Colonel turned around and smiled, "I'll create some fog with my fantastical alchemy skills, don't worry! Just step out from your costume and throw everything to Falman!"

Falman silently nodded his head while Fuery ran a comb through his hair, "Where's First Lieutenant?"

"I think the orphanage's helpers are doing something to her hair..." Falman mumbled while he shut his eyes for some rest.

"I wonder if Hawkeye is now threatening them with her pistol! Ah ha ha ha!" Mustang let out a clown-like laugh while he checked himself in the mirror for the ninety-sixth time and adjusted his gaudy and overtly-bright frock _again_, "Havoc! Remember not to address me as 'Colonel' since I'm going to be the King and love rival later!"

Through the narrow slits that were not very well-placed in front of his eyes, a perplexed Havoc thought he saw a dash of seriousness in the Colonel's poker face. So he tried to smile it off (even though no one could see but it was already a reflex reaction) and placed the gold paper crown somewhere above the big, lofty head, "Yes Sir!"

* * *

The skit was going well, judging from the children's ear-piercing, shrilly laughter. Havoc let out a defeated sigh as he tried not to squirm in his small wooden stool while the Colonel continued in spouting a chain of nonsense that was not in their amended script (which was already expected, anyway). He was surprised that the children hadn't shouted or protested to the changes that they had made to the original fairy tale since he had always thought that the little ones were nothing but devils with full of Right and Wrong in their heads. Instead, they were sitting in rapt attention (especially to the Colonel's amusing and flashy expressions) to their performance and none showed any inclination to walk away nor displeasure shown on their red, shining faces (Was it from too much tear-streaked laughter or the harsh, cold winter? He ponders).

Still, Havoc did not understand why the Colonel suddenly volunteered out at the Amestris military-orphanage. He hoped that this would be the first and last time, since he had made them rehearse for this play umpteenth times whenever he could gather everyone in his big office. He suspected Fury was the only one who was genuinely happy with this arrangement (since people who like animals would like children too) and when he asked Hawkeye, she merely shrugged her shoulders and gave no clue as to whether she had an answer or not.

A bead of perspiration rolled down the side of his face and Havoc took a long, deep breath; it was rather hard to breathe inside the insufferable costume which was also making his skin prickly and itchy all over.

"Damnit," he cussed softly and wondered when the Colonel would be finished with his seemingly never-ending speech. Havoc was dying to get out from this costume, wash his face and get some fresh air from outside with a cigarette -

All thoughts of ice-cold winter air and the taste of newly burnt cigarette were lost to the breeze that seemed to accompany the princess's billowing gown as she strode out boldly and defiantly onto the center-stage. Havoc thought he could not breathe when he saw her exposed back (her skin so fair and smooth) and the way the skirt cinched at her waist (so tight and small). When Hawkeye turned around and looked in his direction, two things flashed across his mind instantly.

First was that he needed to cough in order to get his lungs to work (which he did, discreetly), and second was that he never realized that his First Lieutenant was _that _pretty. Sure he had deep admiration and fondness for her professionalism and capability as a first-ranked sniper and superior, but never had he seen her as a beauty.

The meaning behind the word 'beautiful' would no longer be the same in his dictionary anymore.

Her blond hair was pulled back tightly into a high ponytail (his guess was that there weren't any pretty hair accessories at the orphanage) which accentuated her small, oval face. Her gown was a deep, plum colour (which was a little faded, yet, she continue to shine) and her lips were of a shade that he had never seen her in before. Hawkeye was always in her blue military uniform and boots and guns, and Havoc was entranced.

"Father! I will never marry this ugly frog!" Hawkeye took on a look of disgust while Mustang put on a mock frown and shook his head.

There was a pause of awkward silence, and Breda stepped hard on his webbed feet and whispered, "Your turn!"

Havoc sat upright with a start and shouted, "Pray my fair lady, if you would just give me a chaste kiss, I would depart from here and never return if you wish me to!"

Her golden eyes rounded a little at his tone (since it was usually languid and lazy) and Mustang (the King) followed up, "Yes my dear daughter. Do what the princely frog says!"

Hawkeye pursed her lips a little (Havoc thought they looked utterly sensual), paused for a while (while the children whispered excitedly among themselves, "She's _really_ going to kiss the frog!"), made her way to him carefully in measured, calculating steps, bent down and kissed the top of his frog's head (and his lips parted at the unobstructed view of her tempting cleavage).

Before he could get a grip on himself, (he heard several familiar snaps of the finger and the feigned '_Oh_!' from her) Breda somewhat ripped and pulled the costume out from him, Falman somehow got him to wear a smart, black coat while Fury tidied his untidy hair and adjusted the tie-bow under his chin. Then as the smoke thinned out, Havoc thought that angels must look somewhat like Hawkeye as she stood a short distance away before him with an amused smile curling into her rosy cheeks. So he did what he had to do.

He slowly walked to his princess, bowed before her, took her small hand (which carried the same pistol as him) and asked in his most gentlemanly and princely way, "My fair princess! You have broken the curse that was laid on me! Do you still want me to leave this castle?"

Hawkeye was stunned at the sudden question; this was not in the script nor rehearsed at all.

"Er, yes -, no. I mean, no! I am glad that I am of help," she let out a shy smile at her prince whose hand didn't let go of hers.

Mustang was shocked and speechless when Havoc daringly and wordlessly kissed his First Lieutenant on the lips. Fury, Breda and Falman gasped audibly while the little ones jumped up from their coloured, wooden chairs in excitement and cheered.

"They kissed! They kissed! The Prince kissed the Princess!"

Havoc pulled away from the forbidden kiss smugly and ignored the glares that the Colonel was giving.


	5. Chapter 5

**Quits.**

* * *

Jean got to know Riza when they were still cadets in the Amestris Military School. She was younger then, with a spunk and attitude that none rivaled. Not to say that she was a black sheep, no, she was not that. It was made clear to the training officers that she was the grand-daughter of General Hawkeye, but no concession nor 'special' treatment was given to her. Riza slept in the bunk with the other female officers, ate the same savorless food with the rest in the canteen and worked out as much as she could despite the fact that majority of the gym's users were males. She ignored the lewd glances and whistles (for none really could confirm her relationship with General Hawkeye), shut her ears to rumors about her motives (_"What is a female doing here? Is she a spy? Or distraction to make us fail?"_) and rejected her suitors outright with no answers given. 

She was the only female training to be a sniper amidst the hormone-raging males, it was expected.

Most of the time, Riza acted like a man. She did not allow herself the notion that she would be given the treatment nor respect of a lady, a female. She did all her exercises, studied all that was required (and beyond), and stayed back at the grounds to train by herself. She scarcely talked, and when she did, it was all business and formal.

Soon, her male counterparts began to realize that Riza Hawkeye was _serious_. Serious about being a sniper (for only ten of them could make it to the next level while the rest would be relegated to another department, another rank, and another future), and serious about kicking them out. So the guys in turn, started to take her seriously too. At the end of the year, none teased nor crack crude jokes about Riza anymore. They saw her potential, saw the hard work she put in, and their respect came, partly out of admiration (she never missed her aim) and partly out of jealousy-tinged fear (that she had became a menace, a threat).

And it was true. When the exam came, Riza was the only one who passed with full marks, be it theory or practical. And during her year, only six of them made it to the next level to be 'consigned' as potential snipers for the Military. People started to distance themselves away from Riza, even her female military mates. Rumors began to spread about her, saying that she was not normal, something was not right with her behavior, and what was it with that look in her eye? Riza ignored all of these, as if she had a more important goal in mind, and all these were just distracting, useless flies.

But there was something about her, an air of hope and optimism around her that shone brightly like a sun, or at least that was how Jean felt. Even though Riza was misunderstood and 'ostracized' by the rest, she showed neither disappointment nor hurt. She went on with her daily life as normal, and there was even a small smile on her face when she thought no one was looking.

Jean loved that smile. He wouldn't say that he liked her as a lover, no, that kind of floaty, clingy feeling was beyond him at that time. But seeing the corners of her lips slightly turned upwards, made her face look kinder and softer and sweeter, and that made Jean felt weird all over.

But he thought no more than that; he didn't delude himself with lofty thoughts of secret, undying one-sided love for her. It was just a kind of pull, an indescribable magnetic force around her that seemed to pull him to her. What exactly it was that attracted him to her, Jean had no answer. But he liked her as a buddy, as a fellow trainee, and he did no more than to observe her from his side, with the silence and stealth of a curious, hungry cat.

And he dated, various women from the military as he continued with his hell-like training. As snipers, there were not much teamwork. A sniper acted alone on his strategy and nerves and confidence level and thus, the six trainees were together and yet not. Each of them went about their own training, thinking mystified thoughts in their own heads, only coming together for certain theory courses and reporting to their individual officer. Such a lifestyle was lonely, and stressful in a certain sense, but Jean liked it. He loved his freedom, his privacy, and considered himself sort of an oddball since he shunned contact with the rest as much as he could. He didn't like others prying into his world, his family background, shooting him with questions about this and that and _reload_! Another round of blazing shots filled with fiery, prodding questions.

Of course dating with other female cadets was against the rules, but no one bothered with a trainee. For all he knew, he might drop out from the training halfway and having a girlfriend by his side was the next best thing along with cigarettes. His only indulge, one that would make him feel heavenly was a smoke after sex. It was not easy to get the women to sleep with him, and neither was he the sort to prowl around for willing sex partners, but it came as a natural thing, like a procedure after dinner, drinks and kissing.

And he was happy with that; the women did not ask for a relationship and he needed an outlet for his stress other than just smoking. Sometimes he would sleep with the same girl again, but not more than thrice. It was his rule of thumb, not to arouse any 'fatal' emotions nor have them too attached to him. Some would ask questions, but he would not answer (other than with his body, the thrusts, the kisses).

Then came one day, when things would change for him, and her.

"Havoc, there's an emergency meeting now," Riza tapped him on the shoulder. Jean turned his head around, a little light-headed from the cheap vodka and frowned.

"How did you know I was here?" He shook his head a little; was that really Riza Hawkeye standing in front of him?

She did a quick assessment on the woman beside him; long wavy hair, with a tight-fitting dress that revealed her bountiful cleavage and her face was red. Not exactly pretty, but a sex-kitten. Riza picked up the bill for him, used the receipt to wipe off the lipstick mark on his cheek, dragged him up and away from the bar. All these happened within minutes and Jean was too groggy to refuse or retaliate. But he repeated his question again, to which Riza instantly poured a pail of water over his head. He had no idea where she'd gotten the water, but it sobered him up instantly.

"Meeting!" And she rushed down the dark alley without him.

Jean stood there for a while, shocked at her small cry of desperation and the look on her face. He couldn't remember it very well, with the after-effects of alcohol in his bloodstream and the anger rushing around in his head. But he was stunned (for it didn't seem to him that she would lose her cool over something so minor), and quickly followed her while trying to dry his dripping, messy hair.

It turned out that there was a small unrest, a mini rebellion in the eastern part and the military was going to send all six training snipers there the very next day. It was part of their final training, and whether they could graduate depended on their performance and whether they could get back alive. Jean doubted the scale of rebellion, while Riza said nothing and sat with her fists tight on her thighs. When the meeting was over, everyone quickly got to their rooms (for now they stayed alone, too) with a glum, black face. Except for Riza and Jean.

"So... we're going to get ourselves killed," Jean shrugged his shoulders.

Riza did not reply but sat there silently. He took it as a cue for him to continue, "By the way, thanks for just now. I, er, hope, er, you'll-"

She turned around, looked right into his eyes (and the color of her irises was the first thing he truly fell in love with, he later realized) and said coolly, "I thought you might not have the manners to say thanks. I won't say anything, but you should stop it for your own good."

Jean was taken aback at her words; so straight forward, so cutting, so cold. But he managed a weak, bland smile (the smile he'd perfected for inquisitive females) and responded calmly, "We're going to be paired together for this mission, you know. I suppose they think we might not make it out there alone."

She looked at him for a bit more while, and a shudder zapped down his spine. He could see his own reflection in her eyes, and it was as if she was searching for something, something in himself that he didn't knew and it unnerved him. All of a sudden, he felt very naked before her eyes (for she was now a threat to him) and it (surprisingly) gave him an hard-on. Then she smiled, got up and walked off.

Jean cursed and headed for the nearby washroom.

* * *

"Shit!" Jean cursed out loud, ducked behind the tree while another bullet zoomed past his head. This was no mini rebellion at all! He had no idea where the villagers got their ammunition from, but six snipers and a small troop of infantry soldiers did not seem enough to him. As if on automata, his fingers reloaded his dirty rifle while he peered ahead for the next target. He did not want to harm these innocent, ignorant villagers, but neither could he forsake his life for such a meaningless rebellion. The next batch of troops would come soon, and he and his fellow trainees only had to hold out for a bit more while before _real_ help would come. 

"Riza! Your right!" He spotted a mousy-looking man aiming his pistol at her.

Few more shots resounded through the woods. "You don't have to yell, I saw it a long time ago!"

He grinned to himself at her reply and aimed another shot at the last villager's legs; he didn't want to kill them, injury was the best solution. "Riza, let's move NOW! Back! Back!"

She quickly nodded, scanned her surroundings one more time and dashed back with her rifle in hand and ammo dangling around her waist. Jean wanted to turn and run, leading her back to their base when he caught something from the corner of his eye. Too many thoughts banged around in his head, and before he knew it, his legs brought him to Riza's side and he shot at the man.

All he could recall was the relief he felt when the man fell, and the sudden gush of warmness in his left shoulder. The pain came too quick and fast for his brain to register and he fainted from shock with her screams in his ears. When he woke up, he was in the hospital with a bandage around his left shoulder and a broken leg.

"How the hell did I break my leg?" He scratched his head with his right hand while trying to recall the disjointed events.

Riza sat beside him, in her graduate uniform and remained silent while she looked down. Jean peered at her face for a while and wondered what was going on when she suddenly spoke.

"You fainted from shock. I had to drag you back to base. But you were kind of heavy and you rolled down the hill... and I think your leg hit against some rock."

His lips parted; partly from her recount and her tone of voice. It didn't had that haughtiness nor confidence; it was small, quiet and lovely. Suddenly, Jean couldn't see her as a fellow sniper anymore, but as a very attractive woman. One whom gave him a hard-on then, and one whom he thought had beautiful eyes and face.

"Sorry. And thanks." Riza then promptly clamped up from embarrassment.

Jean gazed fondly at her for a while and came to the conclusion that he was really, really attracted to her. She had an unknown side of softness that had just revealed itself to him, and it sucked him right in like a whirling black hole.

"So you've graduated, and I'm sitting on this hospital bed with my shoulder and leg in pain. I think you owe me more than just an apology and thanks," he put on an upset face and said.

She looked up and caught his eyes, "Then what do you want me to do? I know I owe you my life. Say it."

Jean pondered for a while, "Cigarettes. And a nice long kiss from you."

"What!" Riza got to her feet and glared at him;_ was he trying to take advantage of her!_

He shrugged his good shoulder and looked away, "If you don't want to do it, it's fine. I suppose I'll still graduate once I recover... But I don't know whether I'll still be as agile and nimble as before..."

The silence hung between the two snipers like a heavy curtain, and Jean thought he might have gone overboard when her voice yanked that curtain away. "I'll do it, we're quits then."

And with that, she plopped herself onto the bed and jammed her mouth onto his lips, not moving. Havoc was shocked, and for five seconds, he didn't move too. He couldn't believe that Riza Hawkeye, the Ice-Maiden was doing this (even though it was blatant to him that she had never kissed before) and he was going to be her first. Her virginal kiss, was going under his belt.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her brows were frowning. But that image of her, in dark blue military uniform with her blond hair pulled back neatly, sitting beside him and trying to kiss him warmed his heart so much that he knew he would fall in love with her if he was not careful. But he couldn't care less.

So he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, gently pulled her in (which elicited a squeak from her) and with their chests flushed together, Jean began to suck on her lips softly while his fingers caressed the exposed portion of her neck and ears. Her rigid posture soon went away and he tighten his hug, tilting his face and parted her lips. They kissed like that for a long while, with his tongue teasing her pliant one while he could feel her breasts heaving up and down against his chest. Her clean scent, her warm body and the kiss made him heady and breathless. When he pulled away for air, with his hand resting on her shoulders, Riza was panting a little and turned her flushed face away.

"I've-" she cleared her throat, "I'm going to get your cigarettes."

Jean stared at the closed door until her footsteps disappeared. "Shit," he cursed. There was no turning back now; he had thrown his heart away and it was now sitting in a boat, floating up and down in the unsearchable buoyant seas. He looked down and saw his erection, hard as steel poking through the sheets while another shudder ran down his spine.

He cursed again.

* * *

I'll most probably follow this up with another ficlet. I kind of like this. :D  



	6. Chapter 6

**The Tin Soldier.**

This is sort of a continuation from chapter 5. :)

* * *

Jean couldn't really consider himself as her friend. He also couldn't really identify the feelings he had for her initially, but he knew they were strong and deep. He would miss her if he didn't get to see her in the office (fortunately for him, they had been assigned to the same department for newly trained snipers would not take up missions so fast) and he would grab every available opportunity to talk to her, to make her smile, and to hear her light but short laugh. The sparkle of sunlight in her eyes, the faint pink in her cheeks was like an inexorable hand, reaching deep into his body and pulled the hook in his heart; the one she had put it there, hard and tight until she turns her head and walk away from him.

That ghostly hand then leaves with her footsteps, the swish of her ponytail, but the echo of her laugh, the image of her eyes wrinkling leaves an imprint on his heart, in his mind. He wonders if his head is big enough to lock and remember her voice and words, and his heart large and broad enough for every different faces that she'd shown him.

He also couldn't consider himself as her boyfriend, since they'd never held hands nor kissed (that one kiss in the hospital didn't count) before, and she never treated him as one. But he hung around her everyday, for meals and breaks and she never mentioned a word about it. It seemed to him that she was comfortable with him, and rather liked his presence too. He was quiet, not having much to say or share but as he smoked, he would steal glances at her and think about how wonderful a woman she was.

So smart, so capable, and so strong.

Riza was equally silent too, and he liked the tranquility they shared. She was different from the women he'd slept with; talkative, curious, and a little possessive. Riza was not like them at all; she seldom asked about anything personal and never once indicated that they should eat or spend their free-time together. Yet they always did, and people around them began to wonder whether they were indeed a couple or not. Whisperings and mutterings would drift to their ears and he knew she knew, but none made the effort to clear up the misunderstanding (although, he hoped that it was true for _them_) nor stay away from each other.

So he counted himself as someone else, more than a close friend (for he did know her better than anyone else, even if she was tight-lipped about herself) but not yet her lover (until he claims her, each and every and all of her).

But there was one thing that intrigued him; her determination to rise up the ranks. Riza was really quite a serious woman, day in and day out and she took every duty given to her as some sacred mandate, and strived to do her best. Compared to his own lackluster performance and attitude, moments of embarrassment would flash past his head and their superiors would somehow end up comparing the both of them. Yet he didn't care; as long as he could work beside her, side by side, he was happy and contented. But he knew that she wouldn't stay long like that, in that position doing menial and unimportant work for the military. She'd never said anything (as usual) and neither had he the guts to ask her. It was funny how now that they were closer (unquestionable, in a sidling, subdued way), it was harder for him to ask her anything.

There were so many things that he wanted to tell her, actually, about his preferences, his take on life, why he only smoked that particular brand of cigarettes, on his family (and his retarded sister), their mundane work but a glance in her way, that resolved look on her face and the steely gaze in her eyes, would shake him up from inside out and words would clog up at the back of his throat, seemingly choking him and something cold would seep into his heart.

And then, he would light up a stick and let the tobacco warm him up, and to release those unspeakable words and pent up emotions through the smoke. The answer to why she had became a sniper, why she had tried so hard and forego her youth and womanliness only came to him several months later.

It was December (the month when she would turn twenty), the winter was a little harsh and everyone stayed inside the building, not wanting to go out to brave the snow and winds. Jean had made her a cup of hot cocoa and as usual, she accepted it with a mere nod and went on with her paperwork. He pulled a chair to her desk, sat before her and propped his chin on his right hand (for the rest had went home early) while gazing at her lovely face with a smile on his face.

Riza ignored him, and he continued on like that, wondering how she would look like in a sexy black lingerie with her hair down when she lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes. He was a little startled by her action but revealed nothing other than a jump of his brows.

"What are you doing Jean?"

He smiled, again wondering how her irises could be so colourful yet clear at the same time and replied, "Looking at you."

She put off her glasses and capped her ballpoint pen, "I know. And why is that so?"

"Because I find you extremely beautiful and adorable," he smiled and she let out a soft sigh while she began to pack up and tidy her desk.

"Jean, you have to work hard. You can't go on like this, I've gotten news that the next round of promotion would be coming soon and surely you don't want to stay here for the rest of your life, do you?"

He looked up to the ceiling and made a silly face, "Hmmm... as long as I'm going with you, I don't really care."

She stared at him for a while, and his face started to grow hot (for she seldom looked at him like that, even though he was really thinking about it since he knew she would get promoted and he might not) and the uniform uncomfortable. He got up from the chair and turned his back to her, because the throbbing pull at his heart was so hard and insistent that he was afraid he might stutter or do something inappropriate.

"Don't be silly," she took her coat and scarf and donned her hat. It sounded so motherly and nonchalant at the same time.

"Let's go, some general would be coming down for Christmas Day celebrations tomorrow and it'll be a long day," he scratched the back of his head and adjusted his collar for he had no reply to that. He walked her back, without any words exchanged as they trudged through snow-covered roads until they reached her unit. And when he finally lay down on his own thin bed with his arms behind his head, he repeated her words again and again in his head like a wonky tape-recorder.

Her words, the tone of her voice, felt like a stinging slap to his cheeks. Jean sighed out loud and went to sleep.

* * *

"Here they come," Jean mumbled and his lips twitched; he hadn't had a cigarette for the last three hours as they dashed around doing last minute preparations for the general and his consorts. Riza stood beside him, not answering and her eyes straight ahead as their 'distinguished' visitors walked up the stage to give a talk.

"The general is such a small man..." Jean whispered as he turned his head, stole a glance at her, and mentally gasped. Riza's eyes were wide-open and glued to the somberly-decorated stage, her lips were parted and there was a bright glow in her eyes, that spoke of attention and surprise and something else that he couldn't quite identify. He was curious, very curious and she hadn't even noticed him staring at her!

Jean would never forget that image, the subtle change in her facial features which had softened all the sharp angles and banished away the lingering shadows hanging off her brows. At that moment, he thought she looked like an angel, an angel whose heart had been broken and mended instantly and the invisible tears of old had crystalized in the lifted corners of her lips for she smiled.

It was a smile that made his heart to seemingly twist on its own, and it reminded him of how his sister would laugh when he piggy-backed her; so happy, joyous and _loving_. And it was then he knew why she had fought tooth and eye to stay in the military and rise through the ranks, because she was in love with someone else. The fact was thrust into his face, so cruelly, so tactlessly, and so _honestly_ that he pressed his hand hard against his chest.

It hurt, to an abnormal and never before imagined degree that Jean himself was shocked.

The speech ended fast, and soon a man hurriedly made his way to Riza as she stood there like a lost ballerina-doll, while he himself stood beside her like a forlorn and unloved tin-soldier.

"Riza!" The handsome major with stark black hair smiled; it was cheerful, powerful and flirty. Jean thought that such a smile and overpowering presence was beyond him, and his heart took one step back into the shadows.

"Roy," she smiled shyly (one that Jean had never received before) and swept a lock of stray hair behind her left ear.

"Ah your hair is longer now! How have you been? I'm now a state alchemist, and oh, Maes sends his regards," the major's eyes smiled too.

Riza laughed, a soft tinkling melodious sound that delivered another stinging slap to Jean's face, "I'm good, and how are you?"

Roy gave a low, knee-weakening laugh and brought his face nearer to hers, "I'm thinking of you, as usual!"

She blushed hard, even her ears turned red and Jean wanted to push that man away, wanted to deliver a kick to his groin and shout obscenities but his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground and his mind detached from his body. He felt as if he had been excluded from their conversation, their world, and there was no way he could sneak into it. The barriers around them were as high and electrifying as her feelings for Roy.

"You're always teasing me," she looked down and her fingers fidgeted with her thick blue jacket.

Roy threw back his head and let out a louder laugh, "Just like old times, isn't it?"

And then instantly, as if the state alchemist had said something wrong, both of them remained silent for a while. Roy's eyes glanced warily over Jean, and quickly pulled Riza to one side as he whispered something into her ear. That action exacerbated the pain and anger in his heart and before he could clear his clouded head and raise his fist, the major soon stepped away and smiled, "I'm sorry for not writing back to you. I've got to go now."

Riza's eyes followed Roy until he disappeared among the throng of uniform-decked soldiers, then her gaze lingered on the spot where he had previously stood until Jean spoke. He couldn't bear it anymore; the raging tempest in his head, the searing jealousy in his heart, all these seemed to be a acrid fire that was burning him inside out, melting all his innards yet making the hook in his heart (the one she'd placed) white-hot.

"Your friend?"

She jumped a little, and turned around , "Yes, an old friend."

And at her genuine yet sad smile (that shone and glittered like the sequins on her ballerina-dress), his heart bled.

* * *

It was much later, during one of their drinking sessions before Jean finally found out who Roy was. He was puzzled at first, since Riza seldom drank, not to mention her asking him out to a bar. When he'd reached the modest-looking bar, Riza was downing a glass of cheap vodka and looking rather drunk.

"Jean! So good to see you here! Hiyeee!" She giggled and waved wildly even though he was standing right before her.

Without another thought, he paid for the bill and sent her home while she used whatever energy she'd left to protest and groan. But he paid no heed to her and as he searched for her keys inside her sling-bag, she leaned against the wooden door and rested her forehead on his left shoulder (the one that had taken a shot for her then).

"Jean... "

He paused, and buried his nose into her smoke-laced hair, "You'll be alright," and jammed the key into the keyhole.

"I'm scared... what if he dies?" he heaved her up and carried her inside the house. It was the first time he'd stepped into her house; neat, clean, and... incredibly sparse. No paintings, no vanity dresser, no TV. Just a bookshelf full of unnamed books, a tidy bed, a small wardrobe that looked older than him, and a wooden table with no vase of flowers.

Jean set her down on her bed gently and brushed her fringe away; he had never seen Riza so afraid, so frail and helpless before. It hurt him badly, to see her like this and he hated Roy, for making her so upset and distressed.

"If he die, then I'll really be alone... he'll be like my dad..." Riza started to cry, and Jean flustered, not knowing what to do as tears rolled down her face continuously.

"He promised daddy, that he'll take care of me... he promised... and now he wants to-" Riza stopped abruptly and pulled her blankets up to cover her wet face. The sight of her trying to hide before him was like a bucket of ice-cold water that doused the flames of his anger at Roy. He leaned forward and hugged her tightly, while she continued to sob and tremble.

"You've got me, Riza. I'm here I'm here," he spoke into the blanket and squeezed his eyes shut.

That night, she gave her body to him, as meekly and willingly as a little girl and Jean took it without questions nor any argument (which was something that they liked to do during work in the past). He was careful to be gentle with her, and kissed every exposed part of her, slowly and languidly even though his body felt as if it was simmering under burning coals of desire and insane-like craving. He wanted to soothe her hurts, to close up the wounds in her heart and to kiss away the tears. He wanted to claim her, all and all, in and out, to affirm himself that he was the _one_ for Riza, the man who would stand by her side and support her, the one she should love and adore.

_'Not him, not him, not him,'_ the words repeated themselves in his head as his hands removed their clothing while his mouth never stopped kissing her. He had imagined this for so long, hungered for her body and her touch so much that it felt like a distant dream to him. His fingers moved up and down feverishly her soft body (- _like dancing on tip-toes_), around the smooth curves (- _and the contour of her whole body is mapped onto his mind_) then into her virginal entrance (_- and she gasps, a breathless one that makes his legs shake_).

It was warm, and wet, and inviting and Jean gritted his jaw, trying hard to exert self-control over his body even though his mind was already half-gone. The look in her eyes spoke volumes yet he didn't understand; his head was foggy with desire and his body started to move on its own. She did not cry when he entered (- _bit by bit he tries, until his muscles ached_), then he pushed in deeper (_- and deeper, her body arches up like a newly built bridge_) and when he began to thrust like a mad man (- _he thinks this must be how the tin soldier had felt when he was thrown into the firepit_), Riza buried her face into the crook of his shoulders and trembled.

And when she fell asleep from exhaustion, Jean laid beside her and watched her sleeping face. A thousand and one things swirled around in his head as he gazed at her (his love, his buddy, his beginning and possibly the end) until her body was awash with the weak blue morning light. He couldn't bear to stay there, couldn't bear to think of the look in her eyes when she wakes up to see him and not _he_. So he left with a heavy heart, thinking how he had destroyed their fragile friendship.

That very day, Riza reported sick and the day afterwards, he received news that Riza had been promoted and had left for the Ishval war. He'd expected that and when he got home, there was a handwritten note in his mailbox without a stamp. He read the short and simple note, over and over again before burning it with his lighter. All it said were '- _we are good friends_ -' and '- _I'm going to go over and help him_ -' ; it neither revealed nor hinted anything of that night's incident, which only made Jean felt more useless and lost.

He had burned himself up, like the lovesick tin-soldier and she, the ballerina-doll, didn't even care for his little tin-heart while she left behind the sequinned-memories of their love-making. The hook had disappeared into his heart, and it was steel-cold and gnawing away non-stop like an infected wound.

When he finally managed to join the Flame Alchemist's entourage a few years later, Riza was neither surprised nor shocked. Jean mentioned nothing of their previous relationship and pretended that they were merely friends, as she had so succinctly stated in her parting note. He figured that being near her was better than without; even if she was going to be his ending, he had to be done through and through with it. So he was as loyal to his superior and military, as Riza was to Mustang.

And Roy, being ever so observant, said nothing and thought of nothing other than his goal to become the Führer.

* * *

Note: The tin-soldier and ballerina-doll ideas were from Hans Christian Anderson's "The Tin Soldier". 


End file.
